The Pfalz-graf Siegfried was married to a lovely and virtuous lady, named Genoveva, and they lived together in great happiness and content, until a wicked courtier, named Golo, whose attentions the lady had repulsed, plotted how he might ruin her in her lord’s esteem.

To this end he poisoned the Pfalz-graf’s mind against his virtuous wife, and so, deeming her guilty of crimes she never even imagined, her lord drove Genoveva from his castle, that so she might be slain of wild beasts or die of hunger.

Genoveva, as she passed out from the castle gates, threw her wedding-ring into the water, that so the crime of her lord might be lessened, as he was thus released from the marriage-tie.

Time passed on, and Siegfried, being on a hunting excursion, wished for food and rest; he therefore ordered a tent to be pitched on the banks of a stream. No sooner was this done than two fishermen arrived with a great fish, which they presented to the Pfalz-graf; the fish being opened, a ring was found, which the Pfalz-graf no sooner saw than he perceived it was that of his dead wife.

Returning home he was much troubled at this circumstance, and falling asleep he dreamt that he saw a dragon persecuting Genoveva, who still was dearer to him than all the world beside. He related this dream to Golo, who pacified him for a time: but again he dreamt, and in his dream he hunted a pure white hind, following, and persecuting it remorselessly; awaking, he felt that the hind was Genoveva, and he was indeed a cruel huntsman, who had chased a spotless deer to death.

He ordered everything to be prepared for the chase,—why, he knew not, but felt the dream must be followed out; Golo was seized with agony when the Pfalz-graf set forth, and secretly followed his master’s steps.

A spotless hind was found, and the Pfalz-graf eagerly followed on her track, wounding her with an arrow; on sped the hind, until, with a last bound, it forced its way through the bushes, and fell bleeding and exhausted at Genoveva’s feet.

Siegfried followed close, and threw himself on his knees before his injured wife, who had been wonderfully preserved from death, and, together with the child to which she had given birth, nourished by the poor deer, which now was dying of her wounds.

Pointing to her babe, Genoveva showed that in every feature it was the counterpart of her lord: thus was Golo’s treachery made manifest, and his head, being struck from off the body, was exposed upon the castle walls.

Another legend of Pfalzel tells of a wicked nun, who, by the devil’s aid, worked a magic garment and presented it to the Archbishop; immediately on putting it on horrible desires seized on him, and he felt as if the fiend were dragging him to perdition. Throwing it off, others tried it, and on all it had the same effect; being therefore convinced of the iniquity of the worker, the Archbishop turned the nun out of the convent, but finding that her sister nuns were as bad as she, he was compelled to treat them all in a similar manner: the garment, however, still exists, and is worn by many.

Inland of Pfalzel is Rammstein, where a certain Count of Vianden (like Adalbert of St. Cross) came to an untimely end by an overfondness for wine. He had once taken the Bishop prisoner and put him into fetters; this the latter never forgot or forgave, so, knowing the Count’s fondness for wine, he, one very sultry day, sent a string of carts filled with barrels past the walls of the Count’s strong castle; down swooped the Count’s followers, like beasts of prey as they were, and carried off the convoy; then they all set to work drinking, in the true German fashion.

While thus carousing, the armed followers of the Bishop suddenly surprised them, and the castle was taken and burnt; the Bishop shouted to the Count, who in his turn was put in fetters, “Behold the consequence of raising thy hand against the Lord’s anointed!”

Near Pfalzel several brooks run into the Moselle; one on the same bank, named the Kill, passes Rammstein, and flowing through a charming valley, waters a large strip of most productive garden-ground, which extends from the Moselle to some distance inland.

These lateral valleys are very frequent on our river. We can scarcely wander along her banks for a quarter of a mile but a recess in the neighbouring hills is seen, through which a little stream comes dancing. Penetrating into the gorge we find busy little mills at work, and are led into scenery which at every turn seems to increase in beauty. We shall hereafter have to describe some of these lateral valleys, so need not now dwell on their delights.

On the opposite shore, which is watered by another stream, is GrÜnhaus, and above it GrÜneberg. From these vineyards come the most highly-prized wines of the Moselle, though many think the wines of Zeltingen more delicate in flavour.

Past little islands, and through rich fields filled with garden produce, we glide on, following the serpentine course of our river. The wood-embosomed villages peep at us as we go by, each group of houses has its church rising in the midst: gradually the banks grow steeper, hills swell up inland, and here and there come down to look on the Moselle. These reconnoiterers retire, and having told their chiefs of the approach of the glorious stream, at Trittenheim we find the right bank covered with mountain-giants, come to do homage to the spirit of the waters.

At Trittenheim is one of those flying bridges, almost peculiar to the Moselle. It is thus formed: two strong towers are built, one on each side of the stream; from the summits of these towers, attached to great posts built into the solid wall, stretches a rope, which falls in a curve over the river; a stout cord attached to a swivel, which runs freely along the rope, descends to the surface of the river, and to it is fastened a barge, which propelled by the action of the swift running stream, and guided by the boatman, passes from side to side at his pleasure, carrying heavy loads, with little labour to the ferryman.

Where the breadth of the river admits, these sort of flying bridges are used; in other parts, those with which the reader is probably familiar on the Rhine are in operation; and again, where the stream is sluggish, barges unattached to any rope are poled up stream, and floated across.

Trittenheim was the birth-place of the celebrated Trithemius, famous for his many writings and his learning. He, in common with all learned men of his time (end of fifteenth century), was considered a sorcerer, and the Emperor Maximilian applied to him to raise the spirit of his deceased wife, Mary of Burgundy. This he is said to have done, and the dead Princess reappeared in all the charms of her youthful beauty: but a more probable account of this transaction is given in the following version, taken from the beautiful poem in the Mosel sagen.

One very dark night a man wrapped in a mantle, so as to conceal his features, entered the cloister at Spanheim, and demanded to see the Abbot.

Trithemius (the Abbot) advanced to meet his visitor, who he immediately recognised as the Emperor Maximilian. The Emperor requested him to raise the shade of his first wife, Mary; upon which Trithemius took him by the hand, and leading him out of doors, pointed to two bright constellations in the form of staves, which were shining in the sky, and addressed him as follows:—

“You see there, my Prince, the two principles of government; by ruling with the one, bad princes beat down their subjects beneath their feet, and cause those little stars, which represent drops of blood and tears, to flow; in that garden where the seeds of time are ripening, this staff will stand like a parched trunk, but the other staff will flourish green as a palm-tree, unhurt by the heat of the summer’s day; for this last is a righteous sceptre, a staff of pure gold, serving to support and strengthen those who lean trustfully upon it, and use it to benefit their subjects. Choose, then, O Monarch, with which staff thou wilt rule.”

While the Priest thus spoke another star shone forth, and directing the Emperor’s attention towards it, Trithemius again addressed him.

“I see, O King, a young and smiling face beam from the newly-risen star. Tearless and blissfully it smiles on you, wearing the look of your glorified wife. Pain and tears are left behind her in the grave, on which they blossom like pale roses. Mary beckons to you from on high to join her in the gardens of God.

“Choose, then, thy sceptre, O Prince. Erect to thy loved wife a monument of deeds. To act is a ruler’s duty. We priests have had bestowed upon us a magic virtue; it consists in wiping away your tears, and animating you to tread the right path with the sceptre of blessings in your hand.

“Be strong, be wise, my Prince, and receive my blessing on your noble path. Farewell.”

The Prince, perceiving the value of the counsel he had received, departed through the night, which now was luminous, with the words of truth.

The promontory on which Trittenheim is situated is clothed with fruit-trees, and rivals in fertility the opposite shore, on which, a little lower down, Neumagen is situated.

Before reaching Neumagen we pass a little chapel, erected at the spot where, according to tradition, the waters of the Moselle ceased to be tinged with the blood shed at TrÈves in the massacre of Christian martyrs.

Neumagen enjoys a most agreeable site. Sheltered by the hills which rise at its back, it faces the bold cliffs that now have arisen on the left bank of our river. On ascending the hills at the back of the town we find ourselves on a level platform, with the Moselle on one side of us and the Drohn on the other; beyond these, other table-lands swell into hills, and varied outlines of distant mountains curve into the sky.

On this elevated table-land a refreshing breeze blows, even on the most sultry days, and the tender blue lines of the receding hills give an air of coolness which is delicious to the heated pedestrian. Such variety of scenery as the walking tourist meets on the Moselle is scarcely to be exceeded; hill and dale, mountain, river, wood, and plain, all are there combining their charms.

It was over these hills that Constantine was marching when, at break of day,1 the fiery cross appeared in the sky, with the inscription, “In hoc vince.” Wonder arose in the minds of Constantine and his legions, but none could interpret the meaning of the celestial sign. At night, in a dream, Constantine saw Jesus with a cross in his arms, like to that he had seen in the heavens; and the vision commanded him to attach a mark of the same form to his standard, telling him that by so doing he should vanquish all his enemies.

Arriving at TrÈves, Constantine, mindful of his dream and the celestial sign, called together cunning artificers; and a cross, surmounted with a crown of gold and jewels, was set upon the lance from which the purple standard of royalty floated.

And all his enemies were conquered, in accordance with the words spoken to him in his dream. So Christianity triumphed over idolatry.

***

Walking across the promontory that lies between Neumagen and Piesport, we found the ground covered with the delicate autumn crocus, whose jewels sparkled among the grass; and apples, with their ruddy hues, lay beneath the trees, from which they had abundantly fallen.

Piesport is confined by the mountain at its back to one narrow, straggling street; it possesses a handsome church, from which we saw, soon after our arrival, issue forth a long procession. First came men, two and two, clad in blue frocks; then children, followed by women in like order; these preceded the old priest and choristers; then again came men; and, lastly, old women. The procession wound its chanting stream along, round the little town, and returning, made the circuit of the church and re-entered the edifice. The object of the ceremony was to charm rain from the sky by their chanting. The performers and assisters ill the scene gossiped and chatted to each other in the intervals of singing, and the poor old priest seemed quite wearied, and glad to return to his church. The singing did not in any way influence the weather, certainly for some weeks.

The mountain behind Piesport is entirely covered with vineyards. These celebrated vineyards were considered the best on the Moselle in the earlier part of last century; but having gained this reputation for their wine, the cultivators introduced a worse sort of grape, which bore more fruit, in order to make a greater quantity of wine; but, fortunately for the place, a new CurÉ, who was appointed in 1770, induced them to restore the old sort of vine, and thus regain the reputation they were rapidly losing.

Having succeeded in getting up nearly to the summit of the mountain without un coup de soleil, we got among groves of picturesquely-formed oak, many of the trees being of considerable size. Throwing ourselves down beneath their grateful shade, a fine view of the surrounding district is before us. This view we have endeavoured to lay before our readers in the vignette at the head of the chapter. The spire of the church at Piesport is seen cutting against the bed of the river, and the peep of distance gives a good idea of the peculiar formation of the hills.

The hills of the Moselle are not hills in the ordinary acceptation of the word, as they all form part of a high table-land, which extends from near here to beyond Andernach-on-Rhine, on the left bank, and on the right to Bingen. The range on the right bank are called the Hunsruck mountains; that on the left bank, the Eifel. Through the great table-land thus formed flow the Rhine and Moselle; thus the banks of both rivers are very similar in formation, and average about the same height: but the Moselle, being a much smaller river, of course her banks appear more mountainous; the ranges also approach nearer to the stream, and the lateral valleys are far more frequent.

It is astonishing at first, after climbing unceasingly for an hour, to find one’s self standing on a gently undulating plain waving with grain, and forest-trees growing in masses. The river is then seen to be in a gorge, worn by the perpetual action of her waters, and we have only attained to the natural level of the country.

This level is, however, broken by many other gorges, each containing its stream, bounding downwards to our river. Towards the horizon also (as we have mentioned in describing the view above Neumagen) the table-land generally rises into higher ranges; thus there is never any monotony about the scenery, which is enlivened by the spires of churches, and busy labourers at work in what seemed to us like Jack and the Bean-stalk’s country. It so strongly resembles the description given, where the immortal Jack climbs up and up his bean-stalk, until at length he arrives at the level of a new world.

In autumn, when the weeds, &c. are being burnt, the scenes on this table-land are very striking. Far as the eye can reach wreathe up the columns of white smoke, spreading a purifying smell of burning, and wrapping the view in a filmy veil that increases its beauty.

The name of Piesport is derived from Pipini Portus, the place having been thus called from being an allod of the Carlovingian house, of which Pepin was the founder.

Clausen, which lies at a short distance from Piesport, contains a miraculous picture of the Virgin, which was originally brought from TrÈves by the zealous Saint Eberhard, whose hermitage stood in the forest.

The Saint built a chapel, and in it he placed this wonderful picture: here many miracles were performed; on one occasion a paralytic man was completely restored to the use of his limbs: he threw away his crutches, and walked home, no longer requiring the horse that had brought him.

The miracles wrought in the Saint’s little chapel gave great offence to the constituted Priest of Clausen, and eventually the picture was removed to his church; but it ceased to perform miracles, its virtue was gone, and now it is only regarded with veneration on account of its former celebrity.

Having now arrived in the heart of the wine-district, we will proceed to give some little account of the vintage, which occupies all attention and employs all hands in these parts.

And, with the merry peasants, we will sing the praise of their good genius:—